


The Lack of Privacy at 221B Baker Street

by Cumberbatch Critter (CumberbatchCritter)



Series: Awkward Boys Being Awkward Boys - Without Slash! [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Accidental Voyeurism, Awkward Sexual Situations, Boys Being Boys, Canon Compliant, Everyday Life, Flatmates are bound to see things they shouldn't, Gen, Masturbation, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberbatchCritter/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Otherwise known as:</p><p>Five Times that the Interruptions are MORE than a Bit Not Good</p><p>OR</p><p>Sherlock, don't you knock?!</p><p>OR</p><p>Five Times that Someone (Mostly Sherlock) Walks in on Someone Else (Mostly John) Jerking Off</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lack of Privacy at 221B Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me from FF, heed the tags and the rating. It's subjectively filthy (you can decide if you think it is). But I'm just sayin'. I write fluffy cutes on FF. 
> 
> So.
> 
> Mind the tags and rating.

**1\. The One Who Got Home Early**

Sherlock doesn't make his presence known; he doesn't think he has to. He has to admit, though, he finds it a tiny bit comical that John hasn't noted his presence yet. But John's wrapped up in other things, which is why this is all the more humorous.

John's seated in his chair, leaning back a bit, his back to Sherlock. This is, of course, why John hasn't noticed that Sherlock got home three hours earlier than he had expected. This also explains, Sherlock guesses, why John is masturbating in their sitting room.

Sherlock pulls his gloves off, making no means to be any more quiet than usual, but John's buried so deep into pre-orgasmic world that he doesn't seem to hear.

The laptop is absent and John's right hand is clamped onto the armrest of his chair, so additional stimuli isn't required for this session. John's going by a mental picture and Sherlock, for a brief second, wonders what such an arousing picture John is painting in his mind. Then he realises that it's probably about the latest flavour of the week and he shuts the thought away, sending it to be deleted as soon as possible.

It's not like this is the first time he's known John to do this. He can always tell when John's been at it the night before or in the shower, but he never comments and John doesn't, either. Frankly, it's none of Sherlock's business and he's quite happy to keep it as none of his business. He doesn't _care_ to notice; he just notices.

Sherlock steps out of his shoes, the slight noise of movement covered by the breathy exhales leaving John's lips. Sherlock has to admit, John's rather quiet when it comes right down to it, but all the better. Sherlock doesn't want to have to put up with John's verbal exclamations of orgasm. It would give him a headache.

He stretches and heads to the kitchen. John's chair is tilted just enough away from the kitchen so that Sherlock doesn't walk through his peripheral vision, but he does get a glimpse of John's hand working beneath his pyjama pants. Why didn't he just do this in bed, Sherlock wonders. It would have saved them all the trouble.

Sherlock opens the cabinet to pull out a mug for a much-needed cup of tea. It falls shut with a _clack_ , as it always does, and the noise sounds like a gunshot in the silent flat.

Sherlock hears rather than sees John jump and the sudden cry of surprise that follows.

"Sherlock!" John gasps and Sherlock glances over his shoulder as John jerks his hand out of his pants and sits up a bit straighter, the chair skidding slightly with the erratic movements. John's cheeks are blazing with colour.

Sherlock voices the silent question with his eyes- _what do you want?_ \- and glances at the kettle to see if it's warm.

"I thought... You- I wasn't-"

"English would be fine, John," Sherlock says smoothly, positioning the strainer and pouring himself a cup of tea.

"I thought you weren't going to be back home until one!" John splutters.

"It wrapped up early," Sherlock says, dropping a singular sugar cube into his mug.

"It's only ten o' clock!"

"Like I said, it wrapped up early," Sherlock says, again, taking his mug to the sitting room with him. He falls onto the sofa with a sigh and stretches his legs. "Stupidly boring. It was a waste of my time."

John eyes him, wary like, as if he expects him to flounce up and exclaim that he had solved the case of the masturbating Watson, or some rubbish like that. Sherlock neither has the desire nor the energy and he just sips at his cup of tea with a yawn.

Honestly, he couldn't care less. John was the only one with the problems with privacy and Sherlock just wanted his tea.

**2\. The One in the Shower**

Sherlock stands up so quickly that the bar stool wobbles precariously on its legs.

"John! John; I've figured it out!"

He turns to the sitting room, only to find it empty. The noise of the shower filters through his case-centred consciousness and he hurries back towards the bathroom before he thinks. John has gotten annoyed with him for bursting in during a shower before but this is important. John _has_ to understand.

"John, I've figured out the reaction-" He throws the door open with a flourish, only to find John in the shower, still visible beyond the semi-translucent shower door, with what appears to be his cock in hand.

The noise that comes out of John's mouth is neither here nor there in terms of actual communication, but Sherlock falters from the decibel of it for a half second. Still, he pushes forward.

"The reaction, it's photo-"

 _"Get out!"_ John snaps, embarrassment, anger, and annoyance riding his tone.

"But John," Sherlock starts to protest.

"Get out!" John shouts.

Sherlock beats a hasty retreat before John can start yelling even louder. He closes the door behind him and lets out a heavy, irritated sigh.

If John wasn't so bloody touchy about such things, Sherlock wouldn't have had to either listen to John yelling or had to wait to explain his case. On second thought, he wasn't going to wait to explain his case. John would be in a snit after he got out of his shower and Sherlock wasn't in the mood to deal with a pouting John silently bemoaning the loss of an orgasm.

So, Sherlock just hurries back to his bedroom and throws on some proper, clean clothes before going back to the sitting room to grab his shoes and coat.

John's asleep by the time that Sherlock gets home later that night and he finds that he doesn't mind. A hot shower and a good kip sounded like the best advice right now, he thought, and he relaxes in the shower without regard to what had happened in this spot previously in the day.

**3\. The One with the Laptop**

Sherlock was just going to tell him that he felt like going out for dinner. That was all he had planned to do... but his plans change a bit when he nudges John's bedroom door open and finds the doctor fully engrossed in a wanking session with his face so close to the laptop that his eyes _have_ to burn from the strain.

He's at the desk, which can't be comfortable, Sherlock reasons, and he wonders _why not the bed_ but then... Laptop, charging cable plugged in, connected to outlet. Conclusion, battery was low or dead. The fact that John couldn't have waited for the laptop to charge meant that he was feeling particularly needy... although he had been in a bad mood lately. It doesn't surprise Sherlock to find him in such a position.

But, _honestly_ , does the man go deaf when he masturbates? (It's actually quite comical, if Sherlock lets himself ponder on that.)

Sherlock moves forward quietly, coming up behind John. The image on the screen of the laptop shows a man in a military uniform (Sherlock's eyebrows twitches up again) plowing his dick into a busty, moaning woman. Sherlock finds himself making a face.

"I never did understand the appeal of such things," Sherlock mutters behind John's ear, his eyes flickering across the main points of the on-screen sex.

John flinches, hits his knees on the desk, nearly pitches forward far enough to smack his forehead on the laptop.

Sherlock straightens up and looks down at his flushed flatmate. "I wanted to say that I fancy going out to dinner."

"Don't you _knock_?" John demands.

He's getting better at finding his words when Sherlock catches him at such things. Really, it's not Sherlock's fault. John's just so _eager_ all the time. Sherlock could understand why John was looking for a girlfriend; there was so much pent-up sexual tension that he needed a release.

"Your door squeaks and yet, you still didn't hear me come in. I wanted to see what you were so intrigued about but it's just porn," he says dismissively, turning away. "I fancy a curry rice, I think."

Without another word, he leaves the room and hopes that John will follow him. He's actually hungry for once and plans to satiate it with a good curry rice.

**4\. The One with the Girlfriend**

It's another one of those moments where he's so amped up that he forgets to knock.

But at the shrill yelp, the exploded curses, and the scrambling for blankets or clothes, Sherlock realises that it's one of those occasions that he's forgotten John has a woman over.

He'd walked in on John and the woman performing oral sex. Or rather, the woman performing oral sex on John's very erect penis.

"... Sorry," Sherlock says dryly, hand still on the doorknob. "Isn't there a sort of etiquette that one hangs a garment of clothing on the door when they are engaging in coitus?"

"Isn't there etiquette called _get the fuck out of my bedroom?_ " John shouts, seeming torn between covering himself or covering the woman cowering next to him.

"My apologies. I'll remove myself from the premises so that you can continue to be 'fucked' by her very-experienced mouth," Sherlock says as dryly as before, before turning and closing the door with a firm snap behind him.

* * *

John and the woman surface after an hour. John's still exuding anger, so Sherlock doesn't look up from his book. _101 (Almost) Perfect Murders_ was far more intriguing than John's sex life. Sherlock licks his lips thoughtfully and flicks a page.

Silence reigns for ten minutes before Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. "Did everything go off quite right?" he asks, tone still dry.

"Why are you asking me this?! You never mention it any other time, but _now_? After you storm in on _my_ sex life? In _my_ bedroom?"

Sherlock falls silent again. He best avoids arguments by doing what he does best in the face of anger from people he found tolerable: stays quiet.

John scowls. "No, thanks, it didn't. I'm so glad for your concern." John swipes the remote from the table and punches at the buttons angrily.

Sherlock glances up from his book. "As far as I know, you have no problems with sexual performance."

John almost starts spluttering again, but he settles on glaring. "My performance is fine, _thank you_. But seeing your bloody face makes any erection wither away to nothing."

Sherlock's lips twitch towards a smile, one that John sees before Sherlock can push it away.

John swears, throws the remote on the sofa, and storms into the kitchen.

Sherlock smiles to himself and looks back to his book.

**5\. The One with a Break From Cases**

Sherlock yawns as his consciousness swam back to him, slowly filtering through the post-eight hours sleep haze. He curls up a bit and then stretches, yawning again. Rolling over, he notices his alarm shining five thirty back at him. So, he's up earlier than usual... No wonder the flat so quiet. He's about to just doze off again, make up for his lost sleep, when he becomes aware of _other_ problems being quite up at the moment, also.

Sherlock sighs, shifting in a slightly uncomfortable manner. Of course this is normal; he wakes up with an erection nearly every morning that he sleeps. It's ordinary for men, arousing dreams or not. Not that he has any of those.

Sherlock stretches again and trails his fingers beneath the duvet and blankets, pressing his fingers against his thigh. His pyjamas do very little to hide the morning problem and, for once in a great while, he has no intentions of ignoring it.

He doesn't have time, mostly, for such things. But to say that he doesn't take part in the pleasure is a total lie. He may not have sexual experience with other people but he does have a good relationship with his own body. Most of the time he just ignores it, but once in awhile, he gives into his transport's desire.

Sherlock yawns again and kicks the blankets away. He gets to his feet and pads to the bathroom. The cold floor against his bare feet helps a bit with the erection, albeit it's equal parts good and bad. He doesn't wish it away yet but he fully intends on going back to sleep after this and he has to piss. Two things that _never_ went together: erections and pissing.

Sherlock yawns, for the third time, one hand covering his mouth and the other pushing his pyjamas out of the way to get his cock out. He has his piss and shuffles back to his bedroom, unceremoniously stepping out of his trousers. He's just going to make a mess so there's no point to soil anything else that he would want to put back on.

The shirt comes next, joining his trousers on the floor in a pool of fabric. He shivers slightly in the cold air and crawls back into bed, leaving his blankets in pile at the foot of the bed.

He trains his gaze on a spot on the ceiling and cracks his fingers. Goose bumps start to spring up on his skin and he absently tries to rub them away from his arms. After a few minutes, though, he abandons the task and instead settles on his usual regime of foreplay. Sure, he can just grab his cock and jerk off, but where's the fun in that?

Instead, he removes his fingers from his arms and instead trails his fingertips over his bare chest. Shivers wrack his body, from cold and from sensation, and he lets his fingers dance on their own accord.

First, they find their way across his chest, trailing down the nearly invisible line of hair down to his stomach. He lets them reach the soft skin where his thighs meet his abdomen before reversing. He trails circles around a nipple before rolling it between thumb and forefinger, turning it into a stiff, perky knob of flesh. He quickly moves on to the other, twisting it between his fingers, closing his eyes as the sensation rushes over him. It takes very little to get him aroused and very little to bring him to orgasm if he's in the mood. There's so much feeling in every touch that it gets into his head, turns around and around, brings him off within only a few minutes.

He licks his lips and again makes the circuit back down his stomach, dipping low to his thighs. The light pressure, alternatively scraping his nails lightly against his sensitive skin, sends further trembles of arousal down his spine.

A slight squirm puts movement to the sensation. Every nerve ending is saying to get on with it. His fingers shake as he gets closer and closer to the one place that his desire is telling him to touch. Not quite yet, he thinks, folding his hands behind his back to relish in the desire, need, and unbidden lust that's shooting through his veins. He'll let his transport get what it wants but it will get it on his own time.

He waits a solid three minutes, letting his heart rate be coaxed into something more healthy and the flush to leave his face, the pool of warmth to disperse from his stomach. And only when he's gotten this aching primal urge back under his control, where it belongs, his hand snaps forward and wraps itself firmly around his prick. He barely jerks the ring his fingers and thumb makes around his cock down once before the groan falls from his lips.

He presses his lips together tightly and presses his head firmly back into the pillow. His free hand grips at the sheets beneath him, feeling the high-quality thread count fold beneath his fingers. His other hand pumps up and down on his cock quickly, adding a slight flourish towards the tip, a twist of his wrist or the flick of his thumb over the foreskin. His fingers spread pre-come along his length, creating a lubrication that meant saliva wouldn't be a necessary component this morning. He twitches his wrist again, applying more pressure, changing his technique, breath escaping from flared nostrils in an increasing frequency.

He's just shifted his fingers to embrace his testicles when he's given very little warning that he's about to be interrupted.

Rather, he notices the noise of his door opening and he jumps, thoroughly caught and fully on display, as John pushes the door open.

"Sherlock, Mycroft texted me to say that- _fucking HELL_."

Sherlock tilts his head sideways to look at John, breathing heavily in and out through his nose. He's not entirely embarrassed- he doesn't _get_ embarrassed- but he does wish John would close the door. It's creating a draft.

"You're up early," Sherlock manages, for a lack of anything better to say. His fingers haven't stopped moving over his cock and he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His body has had enough of this teasing lark and his hips jerk up to create more friction against his fingers.

John swears again and turns around. He seems like he doesn't know if he should leave the room or act like nothing's going on and continue the conversation. Sherlock decides to give him an option, but, either way, he's not going to inconvenience himself for it.

"... John. Either stay and close the door... or leave and close the door... There's a draft," Sherlock says, dragging his fingers against his skin again. A low hum reverberates in the back of his throat and he presses his head back against the pillow again, back arching off the mattress. Sweat tickles his temples as it drips down from his hair, running down his face to a sweat coated neck.

John mutters something that Sherlock doesn't hear and quickly leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock redoubles his efforts and, with little less than ninety seconds worth of stroking and squirming, the warmth pools again into his stomach, his breathing hitches and his cock twitches in a warning. And then he relinquishes, exploding into the orgasm, blissful as it shakes him apart, muffling his moan against his closed lips and his free hand. It's incredibly pleasant, of course it is. It turns his mind inside out and all he can think or see is nothingness, blinded by pleasure in a perverse way that he's not entirely opposed to, but not entirely dedicated to, either.

He comes down from the high slowly. His ejaculate-slicked fingers don't entirely abandon his cock, but they just twitch up slightly to run through the dark thatch of dampened curls at the base of his cock as his body relaxes into the afterglow.

He sighs shakily and pushes his hair out of his face, inadvertantly smearing semen onto his face. Not that it would have mattered, if he had noticed; he desperately needed a shower now. To be fair, though, Sherlock thinks, he managed to get most of it on himself and saved the sheets. His stomach and chest, however, are different stories.

With a shaky sigh, he turns to pull open the drawer on the nightstand next to his bed. He fumbles for a moment before coming up with a tissue. He uses it to wipe away most of the evidence, tossing it in the bin.

Feeling weak, boneless, and fully satiated, Sherlock rolls over and grabs his blankets, cuddles down under the fabric, and falls asleep with little delay.

* * *

 

He wakes up feeling refreshed and and more than a little filthy, so his first task is to have a shower. After that, he puts his pyjamas on, slips on his dressing gown, and wanders to the kitchen for some tea. It's just past ten and John's awake and sitting on the sofa, watching some mindless telly. He looks up as Sherlock walks into the kitchen.

"Morning," Sherlock yawns, pressing his hand against the teapot. It's still warm so he pours himself a cup and takes it to the sitting room.

"Did you, uh... sleep well?"

Sherlock glances over his mug. "Yes."

"That's good..."

The tension, Sherlock thinks, is thick enough to cut with a knife. It isn't coming from him.

"Sorry about this morning," John mumbles, looking back at the TV. His cheeks are tinting pink again.

Sherlock shrugs. "It's fine."

"How are you so nonchalant?" John demands, looking at him again.

Sherlock frowns. "It's a natural part of life."

"It's _personal_."

"It's a penis," Sherlock says bluntly. "And the things we do with it. I've walked in on you countless times."

"I remember," John mutters.

"And I don't _care_ about privacy. I am quite comfortable with my body."

"I could tell," John mumbles.

"Look, I don't care about this rubbish," Sherlock says. "If you watch me masturbate or whatever. If I actually take the time do such things, I will continue to do it whether you are there or not."

"Good to know," John mutters. He clears his throat. "I was going to say... it doesn't seem like something you'd do."

Sherlock shoots him a look over his tea. "It's a natural part of life. It is inconvenient and irritating at the worst of times, but it does have benefits when I've nothing else to do. Not to mention that it feels... good."

"Good?" John echoes, eyebrow raised.

"Bloody wonderful, actually, but I'm not one to boast."

"Yes, you are."

Sherlock flashes a grin. "I suppose I am." He yawns lazily and draws his legs up onto the sofa, folding himself into the corner of the cushions. "But I doubt you want to hear about it."

John holds up his hands. "I don't. I'll knock next time."

John looks back at the TV and Sherlock laughs quietly to himself. Having a flatmate had been something that he hadn't ever dreamed about, much less having a conversation about masturbation with his flatmate. His life had changed in leaps and bounds.

Not to say that he didn't like it, because he did. He loved _every_ single minute of it.

**Author's Note:**

> They're two guys, sharing a flat. Of course they HAVE to have awkward situations like this. Of COURSE they do. And I'm not a Johnlock shipper, so I keep even masturbation as canon/gen as possible. :p


End file.
